I Am Temperance Brennan
by True2Character
Summary: Here's something different. Get inside of Brennan's mind. You'll learn of things she's never shared with any human being... alive, that is. Short one-shot reads. - T2C
1. Chapter 1  Postit Notes

The bangs hanging in front of my eyes are intolerably too long. I scribble the name of my hairdresser, Sean, on the top layer of my orange Post-it Note stack in black ink.

I don't know if you've noticed, but I only write with black ink, preferably from a Pilot pen. Any other color is simply not professional for either of my professions and Pilot pens have a special place in my heart. I don't have ink stains on the interior of my organ, but I assume that you fully comprehend my previous statement. My father wrote to me while he was in prison with a blue Pilot and I wrote him back in black.

My bottom desk drawer is stocked full of fans' gifts, publishing companies' holiday presents (which I see as business deals in disguise), and I even own a $2300 encased gold and black fountain pen. It sits on my laboratory office desk in plain sight, but not one my off-the-scale, intelligence marked staff has been able to analyze its existence. If they have, they certainly have not made their findings clear to me. The official name of that pen is called the "Parker Limited Edition Duofold Mackie Fountain Pen". In fact, that could possibly be why he chose that particular fountain pen. It is all speculation as I have no concrete evidence to back up my theory. Could it be that a father wanted to find a connection with his son, or that he wanted me to? I do not know. I dust my "Parker" pen almost as often as Booth walks through my door – not for that reason, though.

I'm sorry for going off topic so suddenly. I meant to begin the writing process of my new novel, "Where There's A Will", but I always do my writing after hours in my office. I should probably move my literature work into my apartment, but everywhere I go my mind still wanders. Possibly, I'm finally discovering inspiration from these past years I've spent studying people. I don't need Angela anymore – for writing a scene, that is.


	2. Chapter 2 Cheating Ducks

Russ was a cheerful boy, you know, before everything crashed into particles of childhood's parenting lies. I was still very young in my youth when it all went down and it seems as if my memories from before that moment have simply vanished. Well, maybe not simply. I'm not sure if I openly gnawed at it like a dog does his chew toy or if, as Sweets would so gracefully put it, my subconscious did my dirty work for me.

My brother owned exactly three Hot Wheels racing cars. He always let me borrow the neon green one, therefore I secretly adopted it. Yes, I even recollect filling out makeshift paperwork - the works. Russ picked the blue car, which he appropriately named soon after choosing, and left the red one to stare from the enclosed Nascar-like stands we built out of the cardboard box the manufactured toys came in. He would cheat, as all boys do, and I would let him. Then one day, Russ picked up "The Crusher" in mid-gameplay. I thought it quite unusual as his energy level was almost always sky high. I believe that is how one correctly interlocks the terms "sky" and "high" colloquially. Russ straightened his back like Dad used to after watching the Flyers' goalie beat up an opponent against the plexiglass panels. I specifically recall red stains the approximate size of five pucks on the ice one night.

Taking hold of my arm, as only a sibling would do, Russ looked me directly in the eye and explained a lasting thought. "Tempe, cheating removes happiness and replaces it with complicated worry and mess like that. Even if you think you're gonna fail, make the right choice." He turned away to motion the conclusion of his brotherly advice, but I heard his last words without seeing his lips move. "Remember that, okay?"

I did not fully comprehend Russ' perspective about cheating and morality until Booth waltzed into my bedroom holding a beautifully patterned gift wrapped box.

Suddenly, I understood. Flashbacks of Hannah played like an old reel, but the messages I received from the rerun and the experienced moment were two different ideas altogether. Russ and Booth are more similar than I had once thought.

The ducks on the exterior gave away its intended recipient. Cautiously, the woman on the outside tore at the finely taped fringed edges while the woman on the inside sunk into the warmth of the yellow paper and his matching duck themed tie and sock combination. The precision of the folds indicated that either Booth spent an immense amount of time with a complete roll of wrapping paper (which dwindled down into nothing but tapered evidence of the almost extinct design) or he paid the extra fee for the blonde store clerk to handle the precious item with care. I guess I'll never know, because I honestly do not have the courage to ask him. These hormones make me hold back phrases I previously would not have, but I have found that this particular experience is eye opening. My eyes were physically open before becoming pregnant, but you know what I mean, right?

The paper was no match for me as I had taken up knitting since field work has been somewhat of an issue. I had found some booties my mother had made for my newborn state and I've been told that I wore them home from the hospital. I'd like Booth to be able to say that to our child one day. The peeling revealed the new and improved Hot Wheels logo and in it were exactly three cars, although not the same colors as the ones I remembered. How did he know?

Booth saw my puzzled face. His cocky belt buckle returned alongside his slightly defensive, yet sincere tone.

"I spent hours and hours and hours and days and hours trying to think of the perfect first toy for Little Bones here…" after placing his hand on my swollen abdomen, he recognized my look and got straight to the point. "Anyway, I figured both boys and girls can enjoy toy cars, you know?"

"You have no idea how much I know." I grabbed a few ducks from around his collar and drew him closer.


	3. Chapter 3 The Barstool

There's something that most people do not know about Angela. She'd probably stab me with a knitting needle if I ever told you, because she's more of a rebellious artist. But, we have an annual getaway trip just for the two of us. We normally plan to take a flight to New York between Thanksgiving and Christmas. My best friend can't fool me. She does this because she knows how my family holiday situations normally are… well, were. This year is the first year we decided to include other people.

You see, Ange and I ritually choose a particular Broadway show to plan our trip around and we spend the rest of our days shopping. Hodgins and Booth had to find some sports bar to go to while we wept in the Gershwin theatre and stopped at every corner Starbucks we saw.

Ange honestly adores Broadway. She'd never sing the songs or hum the tunes, but she always looks like a raccoon who hasn't slept in at least five and a half years when she walks out of the theatre into the smokey lamp lit streets of Manhattan. Times Square proves her condition is not caused by faulty lighting. Me, I always leave with a smile. I know the inner workings of it all and I can look past the thin layer of film between the stage and the velvet covered seats. I have a real story waiting to be written sitting on a barstool somewhere cheering for the Flyers, no doubt.


End file.
